


That Decent, Slavic Sadness

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 - Fandom
Genre: Bombing, Chechen War, Cold War, Communism, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Past, Dark Romance, Depression, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Hate Crimes, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Literary References & Allusions, Long-Distance Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), Lost Love, Mercenaries, Organized Crime, Past Relationship(s), Protective Villain, Psychological Drama, Reader-Insert, Russian Literature, Sad Ending, Secret Relationship, Stockholm Syndrome, Survivor Guilt, Terrorism, War Crimes, Yandere, Русский | Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 16:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Vladimir Makarov doesn't fancy himself a knight of old, no champion, no prince, no cavalier, and certainly no hero - he's a butcher, a killer for the highest price, a soldier, a mercenary, and a mad dog - but, once he returns from Chechnya, he promises to make you Tsarina of all of Russia.





	That Decent, Slavic Sadness

* * *

 

 

 

Tolstoy said that all happy families are alike.  
And that every unhappy family is unhappy in it's own way.  
You were far from being a family as of yet, but you couldn't help the feeling of closeness.  
It was a borderline tangible thing - didn't have to be explained to be felt.  
Volodya certainly wasn't the type to spew meaningless sentiments.  
Empty words, empty sounds - he was a man of pure action.

 

 

 

 

 

So, as such, occasionally, he slips in unannounced and unexpected, like a shadow.

 

 

 

 

It's difficult imagining the man who's visage is plastered all over the papers, in news articles, on late-night TV news reports and urgent broadcasts, heated political debates online, or whatever overcrowded, overinflated site and all it's flowing, colossal traffic - a station blowing up here, and a mall being shot-up there, fire, brimstone and bullets - human casualties, often by the hundreds - people wounded and killed - chaos on the streets of Europe and fear in the hearts of every else - so many bad rumors that a person often becomes numb - pain after pain after pain until both the word and the feeling that accompany the sensation become meaningless and trite and turn from something frightful, shocking and unimaginable to a grey, everyday routine - Prague and Paris, London, Moscow, the African Front, the Caucasus, the Middle East, Siberia - on land and sea and everywhere else beyond - that an individual like that could have an actual, palatable presence in the flesh and not just be some distant, semi-fictional vision, far, far away from sight and mind - from the other side of the flickering neon screen somewhere after midnight when one falls asleep leaving the channel on by accident. Vladimir Makarov, internationally renowned terrorist, disenfranchised decorated ex-soldier, criminal, occasional mercenary, killer by profession and everything else you couldn't even fathom to name often had the tendency of inviting himself wherever it is you resided.

 

 

 

It was just his manner - cold, calm and almost whipsy.  
Appear, allow himself to be known and seen, and then disappear again, without a trace.  
Right before his next killing spree, which you followed from a safe distance alongside the rest of the world.

 

 

 

 

This was your relationship, if it could be called that.

Really, a string of disaster, one after the other, like dominoes falling - and waiting, lots and lots of waiting.

 

 

 

For something - anything.

 

 

 

_-"Out of all the men in the world, you chose possibly the worst one out there to stay awake for at night."-_

 

 

 

He whispers, self-aware - teasing, quietly, in that gravely, eternally serious, ceremonious voice of his as he slowly sits down on your bed where you lay back turned to him in your darkened bedroom and fixing the covers shielding your body, the wooden panels squeaking softly beneath his weight as you breathe in and out, refusing to face him, attempting to pretend you weren't partially expecting him, now and every other night, to appear and say something cryptic before disappearing for another six months or so - locking your doors was futile anyway, he had ways of showing himself in and showing himself out in equal measure like someone who almost lived here without actually living here - like an unannounced specter of the past still lingering on between all of these walls, windows and furniture - this was his way of stopping by and saying hello - checking up on you - as normal as he could get considering everything he is and has done - when you're a wanted man like him, it's best to fly low when dealing with ordinary, commonplace civilians like yourself - your alibi as pure as snow and he intended to keep it that way - he once told you he didn't want you to die or fall to any harm, not by his hand and certainly not by anyone else's and you believed him. You really did. If he wanted you gone you would've been long since gone by now. Simple as. He had the means. He had the stomach for it. He's killed before. Countless times before. He could've ended it all.

 

 

 

Europe was burning - half of the world was, thanks to him - and yet he was here, his hand sliding through your hair, petting your head.

 

 

 

_-"I'm not awake. I'm asleep. And you're not here."-_

 

 

You snapped back with a raspy, tired voice, feeling bitter, angry and jaded, closing your eyes and purposefully ignoring him, hoping he'll go away or simply evaporate like a mere figment of your imagination which you'll completely disregard with the first cracks of dawn, yet, desperately wanting him to stay and talk about anything at all, really, right before he leaves to commit another atrocity you can despise him for for the rest of your miserable existence.

 

 

_-"You're right. I'm not. I'm just a ghost and we don't know each other, dorogaya. You know only decent people. Nobody like me."-_

 

 

He retorted, partially in good humor - partially sour, quoting your mutual agreement right back to you in case you've forgotten - Vladimir Makarov is not a lover, not a friend, not anyone you could ever care about, certainly not an aquitance that could compromise you, place you under the specs of an international radar or put you in mortal danger beyond your wildest dreams, merely a face on the news you occasionally feel shocked about, just like everyone else.

 

 

_-"You know, Volodya, I find it hard to even look at you. What's the point of looking at you if you'll run off and -"-_

 

 

Your voice broke into a million pieces and you gripped the pillow beneath your cheek - a knife you never used hiding beneath the covers under his instructions - steadying yourself and cutting your thought off before you could finish it and reveal just how hard you missed him, never once dreaming you'd be one of those people falling for a literal demon, but hey, it happened almost as if God himself was playing some extremely cruel, elaborate joke on you.

 

 

 

Because of course He did.

 

 

 

A long time ago, he used to say he'd make you Tzarina of all Russia reunited once everything falls into place and the old orders and ways he dreamed about reestablishing come into fruition and back then, it sounded almost like sweetalking - a very specific, extremely roundabout joke - Vladimir's type of black-comedy - how couples idly chatter about gifting their significant others with stars, comets, or some precious, enchanted fairy-like gemstones or whatever impossible, sappy, idiotic nonsense people do to provoke someone they care about into giggling or blushing with humor, even if in a fit of endearing awkwardness, but the more time passed, the more you realized he was not only serious, but entirely willing to keep his word and have it come to pass no matter what it takes, and you feared the day - dreaded it in fact - what happens when the smoke clears, and when all of his enemies, the ones he proclaimed to be his enemies, anyway, are vanquished, and when everything ends and when he takes what he's wanted, with all the blood, bones and lives behind him and has you come out of your shameful hiding and step out into the clearing with him and proclaims that this - this right here - is the person who knew about it all along and loved him throughout it all and was aware of all of his misdeeds and plans and steps in advance and could do absolutely nothing to stop him - crowning you an accomplice and a weakling, a fool and a goddamn bastard in a holy trinity of disgrace. You almost wanted him to drop dead already so he wouldn't be able to complete his own sick ambitions and drag you into them.

 

 

 

You wanted to scream - being neutral and distanced in times like these felt worse then being out there, on the forefront, actually gripping the gun that kills.

 

 

_-"You mustn't go outside tomorrow. Pull down your shutters. Lock the doors. Keep your eyes on the news. And remember - ya lyublyu tebya. Our time will come. Spokoynoy nochi."-_

 

 

 

His hand caressed your back as he got up with a final warning and a promise the meaning of which you knew well - your relative area was his next target and it was best for you to mind your own business, stay out of the fray and pretend you knew nothing like you always did - what better way, then hide this thing you two had in plain sight, by making your home into a viable option and shit where you both ate at - hell, you weren't even surprised anymore - you were beyond shock at this point - used to everything and anything - he did so much bad that it all felt like an empty nudge against your aching belly as you broke your own vow from earlier and turned to look at him before he left, for the first time in months, maybe even an entire year, triggered by his confession of love in Russian, catching him before he left you in a drifting state between being awake and being out cold, uncertain if you dreamed up his visit or not - his mismatched eyes regarding you for a moment in the shadowy darkness of your room, being barely a silhouette of a man against the wall - you were aware you no doubt didn't look your best, drowsy, exhausted, frightened, with a hooded gaze, disheveled hair and parted, gasping lips beneath your blanket, but Vladimir smiled for a moment, like he rarely ever did, only barely, out of the corner of his mouth, right before gripping the door handle and walking out of your room and into the corridor and with that, out of the house, just as easy as that. No hug, no kisses goodbye, nothing.

 

 

 

And what you felt in that moment must've been what all those great books always write about in so many passages - so many chapters - lines and lines and lines.

 

 

 

That decent, Slavic sadness.

**Author's Note:**

> dorogaya (дорогая) - dear \ darling
> 
> ya lyublyu tebya - (Я люблю тебя) - I love you
> 
> Volodya (Володя) - nickname - a shortened, endeared version of Vladimir
> 
> Spokoynoy nochi (спокойной ночи) - Good Night


End file.
